“...the world will pay in screams for every vial of the cure we shatter. I want the IGI director on his knees. Live stream in ten minutes.”
Maverick’s jaw tightened. Fenris. He’d trained with him. Laughed with him. Then watched him burn a safe house in Prague with three fellow agents inside. Fenris didn't do hostage negotiations. He did theater. Geneva was a silver scar in the pre-dawn rain. Maverick didn’t use the front entrance. He went in through the sub-level helium recycling vents—a route only someone who had studied the IGI’s architectural schematics for six months in a safe house outside Vladivostok would know. maverick igi
Maverick had two options. Go loud and risk the switch. Or go deep. Fenris
“I’m a bioinformatician,” he whispered to a trembling woman. “Play along.” Then watched him burn a safe house in
“Hostage count?” Maverick asked, loading his signature modified sidearm—a gun that fired smart-darts laced with a neural paralytic.